


Maple, Dew, and Ash

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Mugen no Juunin | Blade of the Immortal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-13
Updated: 2006-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:57:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1625468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magatsu Taito is worried, Anotsu Kagehisa won't hear of it, and Manji has the day off. Or: the untold story of how Itto-ryu got back on track.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maple, Dew, and Ash

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Zenfu, you gave me a great, great gift! I can't even begin to tell you how much fun I've had with this. Now I can only hope you enjoy the story. And I hope it does melt your brain a little - your wonderful mail to the mods hinted this might happen, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed. :)   
>  A huge squishy thank you goes to my beta readers, first and foremost the fabulous Kennahijja, as well as Agadinmar and Jachet. All remaining mistakes are entirely my own.
> 
> Written for zenfu

 

 

**Maple, Dew, and Ash**

  
  
A pine tree, storm-swept, wind-torn.  
  
It twists from left to right, gnarled like a servant who has become used to his master's rod, shaped by the very force of his blows.   
  
Tortured and ill-used though it looks, it never breaks.  
  
A muscle in Anotsu's calf jumps, then cramps. He adjusts his position, tries to take some of the strain off his ankles, but shifting his weight doesn't bring relief. He'll just have to bear it while Sosuke drones on and on.  
  
He has heard it all before - Abayama Sosuke's account of the massacre, the cries for revenge, the rage... and he should spur them on, fan the flames, but his eyes drift over and away from his men and back to the pine tree.  
  
Compared to its ancient, painted branches, Itto-ryu is a mere shoot. A sapling that hasn't stood the test of time yet.   
  
Anotsu knows he is in dire shape when a simple folding screen, a bit of green and brown ink can make him maudlin enough to doubt his calling, but he can't help it. He's left with a handful of kenshi where there used to be hundreds. School after school have fallen away from Itto-ryu, and he's still too sick to stop them, make them turn back, see the error of their judgment.  
  
Well. He's brought that on himself, hasn't he; flattered as he was by the bakufu's empty promises. The error is his, and his only.  
  
His eyes climb the pine tree.  
  
***  
  
"Man, that was close." Magatsu rubs his neck and stretches while getting up.  
  
It's just the two of them now; the other six have left the Yoshiwara tea-house for Mukojima or wherever else they're hiding, and Magatsu pops his head into the corridor to call for fresh tea.  
  
Anotsu hasn't moved yet. Not what Magatsu would call 'move', anyway. Anotsu's fidgeting is almost invisible to the cursory eye. "Close?", he grinds through gritted teeth. "In what respect?  
  
"Kagehisa, take a look at you. You're on the verge of collapse. You've only been up for two days - you're overtaxing yourself."  
  
"Are you lecturing me?"  
  
"Oh no, tono." Magatsu rolls his eyes. "I would never presume to." He sets a bowl of tea in front of Anotsu and offers a mock bow before knocking him off his painfully locked knees.   
  
And it's just as Magatsu suspected - Anotsu may throw him one of his best death-glares, but underneath he's still as weak as rice paper. Thin like rice paper, too.  
  
Anotsu's eyes have a distracted, faraway look that worries Magatsu. Grabbing him by a bony wrist, he drags Anotsu across the tatami, oblivious to his kicks, protests, and indignant curses.   
  
"Merciful Kannon's sake, will you give yourself a break, man? Do I have to sit on you before you'll allow yourself five minutes rest?" Pushing him to the floor, Magatsu upsets a tasteful flower arrangement, and their frantic grappling sends maple and iris flying.   
  
Strangely, that seems to be what makes Anotsu yield: he slumps as if his sinews had been cut. His head lolls, and his eyes graze over maple, spilt water, a folding screen with a weathered pine, and the third rate piece of calligraphy adorning the tokonoma.  
  
"Tai-kun, you are making a scene," Anotsu murmurs. "I am in fact quite well, thank you."  
  
"With all due respect, tono," the fingertips of Magatsu's right hand brush across Anotsu's cheek, softly pat it. "I think you're still sick as a dog. And I never expected to see the day you'd wallow in self-pity."   
  
Anotsu's eyes swivel up, but his expression isn't fierce enough by half for Magatsu to back off. Besides, with that fan of soft, black hair spread out on the floor, Anotsu looks like nothing so much as a down and out onnagata putting on her best act of hurt virtue.   
  
"Self-pity?" Anotsu echoes.  
  
With a sigh, Magatsu crawls next to him, props himself up on an elbow. "You would prefer to rush into the fray rather than give yourself time to heal, wouldn't you? Trust me, that's not how to 'fall like dew' - that's how to die like an idiot."  
  
"Don't you dare quote Hideyoshi at me," Anotsu says tiredly. He gives Magatsu an exhausted look and rolls over, cradling his side.   
  
They've still got an hour or so.   
  
Magatsu waits for the other to close his eyes, for his breath to assume the regularity of sleep. In the end it takes almost half an hour before he can put an arm around Anotsu without getting smacked for it. But it's sleep, undisturbed and watched over, and Anotsu's body settles on the floor, close to Magatsu.  
  
***  
  
"Sir. Sir, you can't go to sleep here!" The girl grips Manji by the shoulder and gives him a surprisingly rough and thorough shake. "If you can't hold your drink, go sleep it off somewhere else. This is a respectable inn!"  
  
Opening his one good eye a bit, Manji sees rafters, an angry, freckled face, and the earthen floor approaching him at an alarming rate.   
  
"Respectable inn, my ass," he growls, brushing earth off his kosode. More like a dive with wet rag sake, but what can you expect, in the backstreets of low end Yoshiwara. Before stumbling out, Manji drops a few coins on the table and indulges in a luxurious stretch and yawn.   
  
After the dingy interior, the brisk air outside and a golden autumn sun help him clear his head, and he's shaking himself into place like a dog. He's got time to kill: Rin is off visiting Master Sori, and even at the best of times, Manji finds Sori a little too much. A shinobi playing at being an artist, blabbing on about why he can't commit himself to Rin's quest, what with having mountains of things left to paint... please.   
  
Plus, there's the issue of Tatsu, Sori's daughter, and... well, he'll admit he feels a little awkward around the girl who, for months, wiped his butt while he was on the mend at their house. So yes, social calls to Sori's are something he gladly opts out of.  
  
He stops at a sweets stall and considers buying some for Rin when, with a glance down the lane, he thinks he sees a familiar figure, down at the far end. He could be wrong, of course, squinting against the deep afternoon sun. Magatsu Taito's hair has always made him look like a hedgehog, and this man wears a simple braid. Dressed in a nondescript kosode and blue hakama, it could be anyone.  
  
But he's supporting a second man. And Anotsu may have foregone the kimono of pale jade, but Manji recognizes the pointy rat face. The first and last time he actually saw him, Anotsu was being hauled off to safety by Magatsu and Makie, worn ragged in a fight he couldn't win.   
  
This doesn't look too different, although it could be a drunken brawl as well: the two keep faltering, and the cowled figure hanging off what would be Magatsu frequently stops to argue something, or weakly pummel the other.   
  
Manji slinks after them like a jackal. Just making sure.  
  
He falls back whenever they stop, disappears into the backyards of brothels and tea-houses, but once they move into the open and follow the riverbank, he can't hide anymore. Might as well catch up then.  
  
Hurried steps from behind make him turn his head. It's only an errand boy coming through, but it's distraction enough for the two to vanish. Waiting for him in the next-best ditch or drain, no doubt - and there's the tchk of a blade, a step or two to his side.  
  
Manji draws in the most desultory manner, chewing the toothpick he nicked from the inn. He's not overly worried - after all, Magatsu owes him and Anotsu's a shivering wreck. Never mind the shivering wreck took out that Shingyoto-ryu guy, Iriya or whatever his name was; Iriya being somewhat short of limbs at the time must have helped.   
  
"Magatsu, my man," Manji opens, flipping the toothpick left to right, "how 'bout you put that thing down? Chances are, you make an awkward move, old Manji here gets nervous, and your precious leader dies." A lopsided grin twists his face. "And Rin wouldn't want that, now. Boy, she'd kick my ass."   
  
There's a soft snort from Anotsu, though Magatsu doesn't stand down: interesting, the way he protects Anotsu with his body. Only when the Itto-ryu leader tugs on his sleeve does he let the sword sink.   
  
"Your charming charge must have a powerful hold over you, Manji-san," Anotsu says. "Do give her my regards." There's a wry smile hovering on his lips, but his voice is flat: "I believe I haven't had the opportunity to thank you yet for footing Magatsu's doctor's bill... Could that be the reason for your unexpected company? Because, rest assured, Itto-ryu is in the habit of paying its debts."  
  
"Uh," says Manji. "I sorta put that on expenses."  
  
"We will have to reimburse O-Rin-sama then," Anotsu muses, nodding towards the riverwalk. "Since you're dogging us anyway... how about a stop at the dojo to collect the money for her?"  
  
Magatsu blinks and Manji scratches his head: it has to be a trap. That, or Anotsu's lost his mind. Bringing Manji to the dojo, Manji, of all people, who until recently held a record in killing Itto-ryu members?   
  
Anotsu Kagehisa is not thinking right. He's not thinking, period.  
  
***  
  
Tenpo-dojo isn't what anyone would call well-appointed. It's seen better days, and those are long gone. Its outer walls lack the plaster and white-wash so fashionable in town, and while its ramshackle buildings qualify as a roof over their heads, it's certainly not a home.  
  
Which suits Anotsu perfectly well. A school without schools, lacking the secret techniques and teachings the others pride themselves on has no need for frills.   
  
The former sensei's room is larger than the usual six tatamis. Anotsu has had it stripped of shrine and screens and decorations. The floor shows the weathered, yellow look of hard use, and the shoji panels need replacing.   
  
It's draughty and uncomfortable - a place that allows Anotsu to center.   
  
It's deserted. Looks like the other kenshi are lingering in Yoshiwara or Fukagawa still, but he doesn't mind. Gingerly settling on his heels, he looks out at the dojo's poor excuse for a rock garden, its austerity encroached by weeds.   
  
They've scraped some food and tea together for the occasion, and Magatsu's broken open a small cask of sake before wandering off to fetch the money. All in all, Anotsu is not easily amused these days, but lavishing their hospitality on Manji does amuse him. Manji amuses him. Manji, whose early wanted-posters made Itto-ryu howl with glee by claiming he was "born under a bad sign" and never took a bath.   
  
At least he doesn't smell, as far as Anotsu can tell. He's been drinking, which, by the look of him, is a given. Rin's bodyguard indeed.  
  
"They say a Muramasa blade, held into a brook, will cut in half the leaves that float against it," Anotsu says out of nowhere, watching his wrist as he pours sake for them. "Whereas with a Masamune, the leaves will gracefully flow around," he catches a drop with a practised flick, "as if parting in deference."  
  
Manji flops back in an insolent sprawl. "Point being, buddy?"  
  
Anotsu smiles. "Stop playing dumb with me. It is an insult to your intelligence."  
  
"Stop tossing off koans then." He slurps his sake, acutely aware of Anotsu's attention, then raises his cup. "Good stuff, this. Courtesy of the bakufu?"  
  
Anotsu ignores the last part, but finds himself warming to the first. "A koan, you say? It wasn't necessarily intended as such. But you're right: the distinction is meaningless. Both are swords. That, in itself, is their reason for being."  
  
"I guess I know where this is going... Come off it," Manji yawns. "We're not the same. Never were, never will be. You're dreaming of a time that's past, Anotsu. Aiming for that kind of bushidô is flogging a dead horse," he says, dismissively. "You're just a killer who mistakes his ego for a sense of honour, 's all."  
  
Suppressing a fresh cramp in his wrist, Anotsu gently swirls his sake. Not that he expected Manji to be amenable to a discussion of the finer points of honour. "Itto-ryu is not bound by the petty laws of bushidô," he retorts. "And you? Are just a killer who mistakes his own death wish for a conscience."  
  
He knows he's struck home when Manji blanches for a second. It lets the scars on his face stand out, turning them into angry, red welts across stubbly cheeks.  
  
Anotsu sips contentedly. Manji is right - it is very good sake.  
  
"Do you find Rin pleasant to bed?" Anotsu continues, smiling over the rim of his cup. His smile widens as Manji begins to splutter, rising to the bait.  
  
Dispassionately, Anotsu notices Manji's knees, splayed on the tatami. Ready to jump. Anotsu allows a hoarse note to creep into his voice: "Personally, I really enjoyed her company, on our travels. No longer fourteen, is she. Quite spirited."  
  
Manji is fast, but not that fast: Anotsu sees him coming. He's calculated the angle, knows which way Manji will try to bear down on him, and he flows with it, barely registering a left hook scrunching on his chin.   
  
There's no sakki in Manji's eye; it's devoid of that palpable bloodlust too many bushi get high on. There's just good, clean anger over Anotsu's implications, heavy-handed as they were, and Anotsu revels in it. He hates his current weakness, the limits of his body, but this - this is something he can control. He dodges and weaves, scrambles in a feint. If there were dirt on the ground he'd throw it in Manji's face.   
  
Anotsu's bushidô is about winning, not about style. Before long they're scuffling like dirty village boys, swords forgotten: it's common and base, yet oddly exhilarating - even the searing pain shooting up from his bandaged shoulder. He tries to ignore it, but elbow and wrist are already giving way.   
  
Manji presses the advantage, pushing him into the ground. "Say you've touched her and I'll fuck you up, buddy," he snarls. He's got one hand in Anotsu's hair, one squeezing his ribs, his knees grinding on the narrow scythes of Anotsu's hips.  
  
"Your 'little sister', eh?" Anotsu huffs. "What makes you think I touched her?" He has no idea why he's smiling. Or why his legs and feet don't obey, heavy and relaxed for once when they should push the other off.   
  
As Manji's knee slides across his abdomen, Anotsu's breath hitches. Outside the sun is setting, late gold slanting across the floor, and Anotsu's eyes are drawn towards the slats.  
  
"Man," Manji grumbles with a shake of his head, "you're a piece of work."  
  
***   
  
It feels like they've been staring at each other for hours. Manji still hovers over Anotsu, but he's quickly let go of his ribs: they feel too brittle to support his weight, and he's distracted, seriously distracted by the bead of sweat over Anotsu's curled lip. And Anotsu's obvious arousal.  
  
Lazily, Anotsu puts one leg up, nudges Manji a bit. His clothes are in disarray, and Manji can see a black kosode underneath the coarse haori, both sliding down Anotsu's tanned leg. They've slipped far enough from Anotsu's chest for Manji to notice fresh red soaking the dressing.   
  
"You're bleeding," he states, for a lack of something better to say.  
  
"It'll stop," replies Anotsu, further shoving his knee against Manji's backside. Bony bastard - it's a sharp knee, too, but Manji is getting the drift. Anotsu's body is pretty insistent, even if his eyes bespeak something else: they're half determined, half dead.   
  
Manji feels Anotsu's erection hard against his groin, and when he lifts an eyebrow, Anotsu just shrugs with his good shoulder, then proceeds to give him a negligent tug.  
  
Their clothes are threadbare and part as easily as Anotsu's lips. Manji surprises himself by going along with it, by trying not to sit on that creaky chest, by cradling the back of Anotsu's head. He surprises himself by finding it too damn hot when his cock disappears in that oh so refined mouth and Anotsu starts to suck. Anotsu is silent at first, eyes closed, but when he opens deeper, opens wide, he makes this incredible wet noise and watches through narrowed eyes.   
  
Anotsu's warm, axe-calloused hand trails under Manji's kosode, over and between his buttcheeks. It follows the crack down to his crotch, cups his balls, rolls them gently, then harder, and Manji jumps against the roof of Anotsu's mouth.  
  
Suddenly, there's a clatter of coins on the ground. Anotsu doesn't seem to care.   
  
He doesn't stop, doesn't take his eyes off Manji who realises he's in a hell of a lot of trouble if this is a trap, after all - with his back and neck unguarded, his weapons on the far side of the room, and a very valuable piece of equipment in Anotsu's mouth. He doesn't want to know what it would look like if the kessen-chu had to piece his dick together. Anotsu promptly scrapes along the ridge, as if in confirmation.   
  
Well, he could always try and choke the little shit. Ever so slowly he turns his head: Magatsu is leaning against one of the less rickety shoji, legs crossed and arms folded.  
  
"Enjoying the show?" Manji says. He's aimed for casual, but it comes out rather strangled.  
  
***  
  
Interesting. Magatsu has been watching them for five minutes, at least, before he's made his presence known. He would be lying if he had to say it didn't turn him on, but... he's not sure if they're serious. Or, if it's deadly yet.  
  
He inches closer and goes into a crouch to get a better look at Anotsu's face. It's not pained, or forced, or strained; rather, it shows something like reckless serenity.  
  
"I leave you alone for ten minutes, and this is what happens," Magatsu sighs. "Kagehisa. You alright?"  
  
Anotsu lets go of Manji's cock with a slick pop and turns his head toward Magatsu: he doesn't look put upon or shocked or outraged - just not all there. His lips are red and swollen, with first traces of semen and spit trailing over the bruise on his chin. Anotsu nods tightly, and when Magatsu sees his friend's clenched fist lying next to his head, he thinks he understands.   
  
Manji blurts an impatient: "What the fuck, guys? Let him finish what he sta-" but a goodnatured wave from Magatsu cuts him short. Magatsu is pondering how to best go about this. Then he nudges a thoroughly confused Manji off Anotsu: he's not rough. He does not explain. He simply flips Anotsu over onto his stomach.   
  
For a second or two, Manji stands aside, awkwardly shrunk into his robes, grubby feet planted squarely on the tatami. But he is ready when Magatsu motions for him to sit, to draw Anotsu's head onto his lap, and now Manji's licking his lips in anticipation.  
  
The whole thing is such a bloody tight rope walk. Magatsu has never seen his friend this gloriously dishevelled, this roughed-up gorgeous, and he'll have to reign himself in to be able to keep an eye on Anotsu - to wait for his hands to curl or claw or clench.   
  
He's got a vague idea of what he's aiming for, but he'll only know when he sees it.  
  
Kneeling behind Anotsu, he smoothes one hand down the sharp ridge of his spine, feels him trembling through two layers of cloth. He'll leave him one, he's decided, but the haori's got to go. Anotsu fights that, at first - he won't be undressed, not when they've got him wedged like that. Miraculously, Manji takes his cue then, grabs a handful of cloth and scoots back - enough to rip the upper part of Anotsu's kimono and keep him from biting.  
  
Anotsu answers by scratching Manji's hip with his left hand and viciously slamming a right in Magatsu's general direction, missing him. He snarls something into Manji's thigh, but as soon as Magatsu proceeds to push up his rumpled kosode, he freezes like a kitten grabbed by the neck.  
  
"Shh," whispers Magatsu. "Sh, relax now. Taito is taking care of you. And be nice to our guest, Hisa-kun." He pats and strokes the thin flank, and Manji lets out a groan as Anotsu resumes nuzzling his dick.   
  
"Wait, wait", Manji hedges suddenly, "I know he's crazy, but he's not contagious, is he?"  
  
***  
  
"It was tetanus, mate," Anotsu hears Magatsu say, "not the frigging plague. Give me a hand here."  
  
The sound of their words rolls in and out, laps at him. His fumbling and flailing has stopped, finally. Impossibly stretched and pushed and torn between those two, he slips under the waves.   
  
Manji has wound an arm under his chest, holding him steady while Magatsu shoves into him. His face is sticky, and as it rubs over Manji's stomach, he can feel Manji's many scars against his lips and cheeks: scars, everywhere, crawling over sweaty flesh, knotted and re-knotted in the crudest of carpets.   
  
Gasping, he tries to rise and right himself on Manji's knees - but then Magatsu yanks his head back, pulling his come-streaked hair. His spine twists in an impossible angle, and something warm runs down his leg, blood or semen or probably both.  
  
As soon as he finds enough of a hold, he starts to press back in an attempt to ease his discomfort, to defy Magatsu's rhythm and set his own, but Manji keeps him off balance: he pulls him forward, onto his cock that's waiting to be sucked again.   
  
In the end, Anotsu lets go. He soars in his rage and lets his body assume control: that was, after all, the purpose of this entire, ridiculous exercise. He's the last to come, untouched and with a wild sense of relief. Thrashing up, he very nearly sobs, then flops like a koi dropped on a sidewalk.   
  
It's tempting to close his eyes now, but he forces them to stay open. His cheek is unceremoniously squashed against the tatami, and he looks at the first lamps of the evening, lit beyond the dojo's walls.   
  
"How's he doing?" he hears the low rumble of Manji's voice. Magatsu is getting up in one fluid motion. "Oh, he'll be fine," he says. "How about a bath? Cold, I'm afraid, but hey."  
  
For now, Anotsu is content to simply lie there, dizzy from the sheer force of his atonement. He listens to the thump of his heart, the in and out of his breath, and the chirr of crickets loud in the dusk.   
  
Following Magatsu and Manji into the bathhouse at last, he doesn't say a word. He washes in icy water and refuses to meet their eyes. It's only later, after scrubbing down and grabbing a fresh yukata, that he asks Magatsu to help him dress his shoulder.  
  
***  
  
They move to a veranda and share the rest of the sake in silence. The rising moon is almost full: it pours pale light into the yard and glints off the pebbles.   
  
With his hair wet, Anotsu looks like a drowned hawk, Manji thinks. The high cheekbones, maybe. Or his black eyes, shrewd and unblinking as his gaze trails over Manji: "I hear you've run into the Mugai-ryu," he says, one finger caressing the rim of his sake cup. "I don't know if you are aware of this, but they are linked to the bakufu. To a man named Habaki."  
  
Manji cocks his head. "And you're telling me this, why?"  
  
"Do with it whatever you want." Anotsu shrugs. "It is no longer of concern to me."  
  
"Huh. Well then. I'll keep that in mind." He should probably go pick up Rin now, because shit, it's late, and the rest of Itto-ryu could be here any second, so Manji bags his little pile of coins and rises. "Guess I'll see you guys around," he adds sheepishly.  
  
It's not really a smirk, but the corners of Anotsu's mouth twitch, and he inclines his head a fraction: "This humble person would consider himself honoured."   
  
Funny how he manages to make it sound like "piss off."  
  
***  
  
Less than a month later, flames greedily devour the gabled roofs. They race each other through the timbers to engulf pagoda after pagoda, tearing through walls and wooden floors, sending up gusts of ash that used to be shoji. In their ravenous hunger, they make quick work of Tenpo-dojo.   
  
Abayama winces when the carved kami, the protector of the place, topples from its perch above the main entrance. "Was this really necessary, Kagehisa?" he sighs.  
  
Anotsu stares into the red, wheeling madness. His knuckles are white, but his voice is calm. "It must be. If we want to return to our roots, we must be free - nothing to lose except our skills and our comrades. It's that philosophy which sets Itto-ryu apart from all others." With that, he throws the torch into the fire, turning his back as Tenpo-dojo burns unchecked.   
  
Grimly, Anotsu snatches a black flake from the sky. "We're going underground for now," he says to Magatsu, or Doa, or no-one in particular. "We'll rise again come winter."   
  


  
  
********  
  
"To have the arts of peace, but not the arts of war is to lack courage. To have the arts of war, but not the arts of peace is to lack wisdom." (Hayashi Razan, 1583-1657)  
  


 


End file.
